Mr. Rochester

by Sarah Shoemaker

  I had no idea what had caused those reactions or even how to upend them. Clearly, my attempt to impress Miss Kent had gone badly amiss. At last Carrot stopped laughing, and giving me a final, merry look, he said, “Farinelli! Well, one would hope not.”

  “Why?” I asked. “What—”

  “Oh, Jam. What do you know of him—besides his name?”

  “He’s a famous opera singer, is he not?”

  “And—?”

  “He’s Italian?”

  “And—?” His face was nearly in mine. “The most famous singer…of…his…type.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning at me. “Jam,” he said, “he’s a castrato.”

  “No,” I said. “Oh God, what…?”

  “What do you say to our poor Miss Kent? You simply tell her you made a slip of the tongue, that you meant to say ‘Andrea Nozzari’ instead. I think she’s actually heard him sing. She will be impressed; she might even forget about the Farinelli thing.”

  “No. Oh God no.” How could I face her now? “I should pack up and leave.”

  He took hold of my arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. By this evening, we will all be laughing—she will be, and you too, I imagine. It’s not a fatal mistake, you know.”

  Not fatal, no, of course, but still—in Carrot’s own words, I would be the laughingstock of the evening.

  “Jam,” Carrot went on, his twinkling eyes boring into mine, “I have seen you in many a daring and brave act. This is simply another kind of bravery: hold your head up and admit to error, force a laugh if you must, and move on. Others only get the best of us when they sense a weakness. One can never hurt a man who refuses to be hurt.”

  “But what can I say to her?” I asked.

  “You will find the words,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Go; it will only be harder the longer you wait.”

  I left the room and walked slowly across the hall and into the drawing room, my mind scrabbling for something to say. Miss Kent was seated at the pianoforte, playing a simple tune that seemed familiar. She didn’t glance up even when I was nearly beside her. “I made a mistake,” I said, all other possible excuses failing me. “I should have said Nozzari.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I agree, a better choice.” She looked at me then, her eyes merry. “A much better choice. Shall we begin?”

  She was a delightful teacher, never taking herself, or the music, too seriously. She said I was a natural musician, and I, flattered, standing at the pianoforte, gazing down at her graceful hands, fell a bit in love.

  In the meantime, Miss Gilpatrick popped her head in and out of the drawing room as she arranged a picnic luncheon. I drove the pony cart, with the two ladies as passengers, and Carrot and Rowland ahead on horseback, leading the way. It was a lovely day, the sky the deeper blue of early autumn, the leaves of the trees beginning to turn to yellow, the farm laborers in the midst of mowing and reaping. One could well imagine Constable just over the next ridge, or perhaps down in the dale ahead, painting the scene.

  We picnicked under an ancient oak, and I flirted a bit with Miss Kent. She smiled, amused, I now imagine, at my clumsy, boyish attempts. We all talked desultorily until one and then another dozed off, even Miss Kent, with Carrot’s head on her lap. But I was infatuated with the day and with my presence there, and I could not think of wasting a moment of it in sleep. Instead, I wandered off on my own, following a path that might have been a sheep trail and whose end was a mystery to me, making it all the more intriguing. I found myself eventually at the bottom of a fell, which I climbed in order to take in the view, and was rewarded with a vast expanse of meadows and fields, ending, at the horizon, with a dark escarpment that I took to be the beginning of the moor. Beyond, I knew, would be the North Sea. I had, as yet, never seen the sea, and the knowledge that it was just there, not so very far away, excited me. I realized, looking off at what seemed like the edge of beyond, how desperate I was for a new life, for Jamaica, for the world to open to me.

  Turning back, I saw Carrot not far behind, apparently having followed the same path as I. By the time I returned to the foot of the fell, he was nearly upon me. “I wondered where you had gone,” he said in greeting.

  “You can see the moors from up there!”

  “Jam, there are moors all around.”

  “But not those, not so vast,” I responded.

  Carrot grinned and hooked his arm in mine as we headed back. “If you stay another day, we could take ourselves over there.”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “You can do whatever you choose.”

  Carrot could. He had independence, a home, good friends. “Someday,” I said. “But Mr. Wilson has been like a father to me; I owe him this, to take charge until the mill is sold.”

  “Surely you will come back for a visit, before you sail for Jamaica,” he said.

  “I will,” was all I could say. I could not be sure how, but I knew I’d give anything to spend more days like this one.

  But Carrot was not finished. “Your brother is really a rather decent chap, once you get to know him.” Somehow Carrot had always been able to read my mind. He slung his arm across my shoulders. “Do you remember the time you tried to pummel me to death?”

  “Oh God,” I said.

  “It’s what brothers do,” he said, laughing. “I have plenty of cousins—it’s what they do. The older ones make life hard for the younger ones, and the younger ones fight back in the only way they know.”

  “But you never—”

  “I never understood how difficult it must have been for you—all those holidays alone. I should have.”

  I shook my head, my mind still stuck on the word: brother. “It’s over,” I said. “That was years ago.” And then: “Did you know that Touch passed away not so long after he left Black Hill?”

  He squeezed my shoulder. “Mr. Lincoln let me know in a letter. I couldn’t believe it…little Touch. The three of us—what a combination we made, what fun we had.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I could not imagine being at Black Hill without you,” he said.

  “Nor was it the same after you left,” I responded.

  We stood together for a time, gazing over the fells to the moors beyond. I did my best to hold back my tears, and after a while we walked back toward the rest, his arm still across my shoulders.

  That evening we dallied over dinner, all of us mellow of mood and rosy of face from the day outdoors. And, later, there were a few songs from the others, especially Miss Kent and Rowland, but I could not bring myself to sing for them. “Next time,” I said. “When I’ve had a chance to practice, so as not to make another fool of myself.” And despite their urging and teasing, I did not budge, though many times since I have wished I had.

  We lingered well into the evening, reading more of Rob Roy when it suited us, and on the spur of the moment I pulled a volume of Shakespeare off a shelf and read a sonnet or two. I meant them for Miss Kent, and when I finished I looked directly at her. Her face grew red and she glanced at Carrot, and it was only in seeing that look exchanged that I realized how mistaken I had been. And how kind they both had been to me.

  After that final embarrassment, I could think of nothing to do other than to retire to my room and leave as quickly as I could in the morning. I did not even see Carrot again before I left.

  Chapter 14

  Though I had been gone but a few days, there were surprises waiting for me at Maysbeck. Mr. Wilson had taken a turn for the worse, having experienced another serious episode. Mr. Landes assured me that there had been no need to summon me back, as nothing that I or my presence could have done would have made a difference, but still I could not help thinking that I should have been there.

  I could scarcely bear to see him as he had become, bedridden, somnolent, looking gray and wizened beneath the bedcovers. I spoke to him, and I thought his eyelids twitched as if he recognized my voice, but more than likely it was just my imagination, or my wish. Mrs. Wilson was red-eyed from we
eping, and she clung to me as if I were her last and best hope. But just as there was nothing I could do for her husband, there was little I could offer her but comfort.

  And that was not the only change. The day after I left for my visit to Carrot, a man had appeared at the door of the Wilsons’ home, claiming to be a distant cousin of Mr. Wilson. Mrs. Wilson had no recollection of having heard his name, but Mr. Landes had judged him to be a competent and honest fellow and had established him at the Crown with the idea that he could learn the business while I was still at Maysbeck and then continue to run it when I had left. All of this was accomplished without Mr. Wilson’s knowledge, for it was no longer possible to have any meaningful communication with him. It was clear to all that there would be no recovery, nor could he even be asked his opinion of this alleged cousin from Northumberland. But it did seem curiously providential that young Mr. David Wilson had arrived, now that I was set to leave.

  I met this cousin the day after I returned. His grandfather was the brother of Mr. Wilson’s father, he said, and he seemed a decent enough sort. He had been a manager at a mill that had been forced to close after Luddites had broken in and destroyed nearly all the frames, and he had come to Mr. Wilson in hopes of a position at Maysbeck. On hearing that the mill was now for sale, this younger Mr. Wilson opined that he had a small inheritance, and perhaps he could manage to actually buy the place. The sum he had to offer was much less than what Mr. Landes had hoped, but given the difficult times, it seemed—as the proverb goes—that a bird in the hand was worth quite a bit, and he and Mrs. Wilson were taking the offer under consideration.

  It was not my place to argue one way or another, but if I had been asked, I would have thought to wait a bit and see if any additional offers came. Still, I could not blame Mr. Landes for wanting to get out from under the burden, and Mrs. Wilson for having no reason to delay and perhaps much desire to get the whole unpleasant business finished, now that her husband would never run his mill again.

  I was sorry to see her suffer, with both her loved ones in such disastrous states, and to distract her mind, as well as to further my fledgling musical abilities, I asked her to teach me to play the piano in the evenings, after tea. She did not have Miss Kent’s skill, but she was good enough to teach me and seemed to enjoy it. Even Mr. Wilson appeared pacified by the music.

  At the mill, I felt myself in a rather awkward situation—David Wilson was clearly set on taking charge, and it was sometimes difficult for me to be gracious about teaching him so that he could take over what had been my responsibilities, for it seemed I had become more used to being in that position than I had realized. One of the first things David Wilson did was send Rufus Shap packing, for the simple reason that he had not liked Rufus’ attitude. Indeed, I had not liked his attitude, either, but I had put up with him, as Mr. Wilson had urged. But David Wilson did not see it that way at all, and it might have been that he was right and I had probably been too unsure of myself to do what needed doing. He reminded me a bit of my father in that way. At any rate, Rufus was gone and the weight of his gaze was lifted, and the whole mill seemed chastened as a result.

  Indeed, with fewer burdens at the mill and without the responsibility to recount each evening the activities of the day to Mr. Wilson, I had more time than I knew what to do with. The hard fact was that I had no good friends at Maysbeck. I did still go to services with Mrs. Wilson—it was the least I could do for her—and as always, she took pleasure in introducing me to the local families. I began to take greater notice of the young ladies in the congregation, who glanced at me from under their bonnet brims when I passed. Not so many young men were in attendance, for most of my age and class were at college somewhere or off making their fortunes in larger cities.

  I had never gone to the holiday balls that were held at the town hall each year: I did not know how to dance, and I was reluctant to make a fool of myself. But that winter Mrs. Wilson suddenly seemed determined that I escort her there. Her sudden passion for the dance bewildered me, since she was certainly not in the market for a husband, but I was loath to disappoint her.

  But in fact, I found the evening perfectly enjoyable. The young ladies saw no obstacle at all in the fact that I had never danced before; indeed, they appeared to make a contest of who could teach me the most. Although I was neither tall nor fair, they seemed to enjoy my company. The evening was half over before I realized that this was what Mrs. Wilson had intended all along. She sat there in her corner of widows, mothers, and maiden aunts, smiling smugly and eyeing each female with a seasoned and critical eye, and when the evening was over, on our way home, she bubbled with excitement. Did I not think Miss Howard was the prettiest? Did I suppose Miss Phillips the best dancer? Did I notice that Miss Grath, while shy, had a lovely smile—and such perfect teeth? Carrot would have had no end of fun with that: judging a woman by her teeth, as if she were a horse. Still, my pleasure in the evening made me realize how much I had been missing.

  In the aftermath, there was a sudden flood of dainty envelopes arriving at the house, containing sweetly scented invitations to tea, to an evening musicale, to another ball, and I threw myself merrily into the game, finally putting my foolish, boyish attempts at flirtation with Miss Kent behind me. It’s true that some of the young ladies I met seemed to giggle to an annoying degree, and others gossiped as if they thought it mattered whether a dress and a hat matched or as if I cared who was flirting with whom. But there were others with whom I particularly enjoyed spending time, who seemed warm and intelligent and even quick-witted.

  It was then that I became serious about learning to play the piano, for so often music was the entertainment at a tea or an evening gathering. I had already managed to pass myself off as an acceptable singer, and I wanted to be able to play as well, to hold that key to a woman’s interest. Mrs. Wilson taught me as best she could, and it was not too long before I was playing as well as or better than she.

  Now, frequently on the street I would see a familiar face that smiled discreetly as we passed, and middle-aged men took a sudden interest in me and in my future, and such was the pleasure of this friendly attention that I chose not to remember that I was leaving in the summer, and that my future was still unknown to me.

  * * *

  That spring a short missive arrived from Carrot. We were not in the habit of corresponding with great regularity, but in the eight months since I had been to Lanham-Hall, he often let me know where he was bound—to the Continent, to Bath or Brighton or London; never, of course, to Maysbeck. David Wilson had taken hold at the mill, and sometimes I felt superfluous. I hardly knew what to make of that: on the one hand I was eager to get on with my life, but at the same time he had taken on a role that I had considered my own. I did not always think he made the right decisions, but I had to hold my tongue, for he had made it clear that it was not my place to question him. I understood that he and Mr. Landes had come to an agreement on the price, and I reminded myself that the issue did not much matter to me, for my future was not to be in Maysbeck.

  The purpose of Carrot’s letter was to remind me of Derby Day at Epsom—only a week or so hence—and it clearly served as a summons to attend. I smiled at the presumptive wording, so sure was he that I had nothing to do other than what he was proposing. Indeed, I had been hoping to attend that year, now that David Wilson’s presence gave me more freedom from day to day. I wrote back that I would be there and looked forward to it with great anticipation.

  However, I had not reckoned on Rufus Shap.

  One evening I attended a tea given by Miss Alice Phillips. Over the preceding weeks, I had come to appreciate Alice more and more: she had a lovely singing voice and an intelligent mind. It was a pleasant event, six or eight of us gathered in her cozy parlor on a soft May evening. The curls of Alice’s red-gold hair framed a sweet and lively face, and as I played the piano and watched her sing, I wondered what she would think of Jamaica, if she had the daring to cross the sea for a new life with me.

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p; I was the last to leave that evening, and Alice placed her hand on my arm as she walked me to the door and bade me farewell, brushing a finger across my shoulder as if to whisk away a piece of lint. I could have kissed her, but instead, I tipped my hat and she smiled broadly at me and waved her hand in the doorway until I was through the gate.

  It had been a perfect evening. Imagining Alice Phillips in my arms, the sweet scent of her lavender enveloping me, I walked to the High Street and then along it, passing a raucous inn and the dark and silent establishments of a poulterer and a baker. Suddenly I became aware of a noisy shuffling behind me, as if I were being followed. Yet, it was the High Street: other folks were no doubt on their way home at this time of night, and so I paid it no more attention, until a rough, gravelly voice called out, “Oy! You!”

  I did not think he meant me, so I continued on.

  “Oy!” he called again, louder. “You! Rochester, you!”

  I turned and saw a large, dark form coming toward me, but the streetlamp was behind him and I could not make out his face. “You!” he called again, still advancing.

  I thought to turn and run, and should have, but I felt young and strong and nearly invincible, and I held my ground. “Who are you?” I asked.

  “You know me! You ’as cost me my job!”

  Of course—I recognized his voice. “Rufus Shap,” I said as calmly as I dared. “I did not cost you your job. You did it to yourself; it was your own doing.”

  “It was you,” he growled, and he was close enough that I could smell the ale on his breath. “Though you weren’t man enough to do it yourself, were you? And my cousin, as well,” he added. He was in my face then, his powerful hands suddenly grasping my jacket, and there was no chance of escape.

  “I don’t even know your cousin,” I said, trying to back away.

  “You know ’er,” he said angrily, shaking me with his huge hands. “You do.”

  I still did not take his meaning.

  “You are a coward among men.” His spittle sprayed over my face. “You don’t even remember, do you?” he growled. “She was nothing to you, she was. And you forced yourself on ’er, you did. You, high and mighty, thinks you have a right to do whatever you want with a poor girl who works for you, you do.” Alma. Before I could react he brought a practiced knee to my groin. The pain seared through me and I remained standing only because his huge hands held me. When his fist hit me hard in the head, he let me fall to the ground. He must have kicked me and stomped on me, but by then I had lost all consciousness.